Loving Lord Ash

by Sally MacKenzie

  “There was never any friendship to continue, you dastard!” Jess looked as if she wished she had something to throw at the man. Her sharp tone caused her dog to start barking.

  Huntington’s horse took exception to the sudden, deep noise and reared, almost depositing Huntington on his arse. It was a near thing, but the man managed to keep his seat, though he did lose his hat.

  Meanwhile the dog, likely encouraged by the commotion he’d caused, leapt to his feet and redoubled his efforts. Huntington’s horse was having none of it. It took off at a flat-out gallop.

  “Shush, Kit. Sit down and compose yourself.”

  Since he was already sitting, Ash concluded Jess was addressing her dog. The animal, after one last parting bark, flopped back down in the back of the wagon. Jess turned around to pat him.

  “Good boy. That’s the way to send George running.”

  The dog licked Jess’s face.

  “Has Huntington truly been a thorn in your side all these years, Jess?” Now that he wasn’t so blindingly angry, Ash realized the name was familiar. Had Walker, his estate manager, mentioned him?

  No, it had been Percy. He’d overheard Percy talking to some fellow at Mama’s house party the year after he’d left Jess at the manor. He’d been out on the terrace alone, trying to compose himself—it had been especially hard to endure Mama’s matchmaking parties those first few years—and Percy had been inside, likely unaware that Ash could hear him. He was certain Percy had said Huntington was one of the many men who’d enjoyed Jess’s favors. He remembered the incident because his pain was still so raw; it had just underlined how little he meant to his absent wife.

  “Yes, though fortunately he does spend most of his time in London now.” She frowned at him. “I try to avoid him whenever he’s here, but I didn’t know he was back in the area until I ran into him in Mr. Sheldwick’s shop a few days ago. He insisted on walking me home.”

  “And you went with him? That doesn’t seem wise.”

  Her frown turned to a scowl. “You don’t know Mr. Sheldwick.” She sighed and looked out over the fields. They’d resumed their plodding pace toward the next town.

  “Mr. Sheldwick is a sweet old man and completely oblivious to gossip. He heard Huntington’s offer to escort me and insisted I accept. He doesn’t think I should be walking by myself.”

  “He’s right about that. You should have taken one of the footmen or at least your dog.”

  Jess snorted. “This is the country. I’m perfectly safe by myself.”

  “Oh? And were you perfectly safe walking with Huntington?”

  She looked somewhat chagrined. “I don’t like him, but I didn’t think I was in danger.” She raised her chin. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  Blast it, Jess had always been far too independent and headstrong for her own good.

  Perhaps she’d encouraged the fellow.

  No, she’d have to be an amazing actress to feign such anger. “I cannot believe the fellow would so abuse the Marchioness of Ashton.”

  “Well, people don’t consider me a marchioness; they think I’m just a mistake you’ll eventually get around to correcting.”

  Damnation. He gripped the reins too tightly, and the horse tossed its head. He forced his fingers to relax. “Our marriage is no one’s business but our own.”

  She laughed at that. “Come, Kit. Whatever I am, you are definitely a marquis, one day to be a duke, one of the most powerful men in England. Of course your marriage is everyone’s business.” She looked him in the eye with the same defiant expression she’d so often used as a girl when she was trying to pretend her feelings hadn’t been hurt.

  Something near his heart twisted.

  He remembered the exact moment when she’d gone from childhood playmate to . . . to something else. He’d been sixteen, and she, fourteen. They’d been out riding early in the morning as they often did, when the grass was still wet with dew and they had the world to themselves. They’d reached the north field, and Jess, as usual, had challenged him to race to the old oak tree. And then she’d taken off, and he’d taken off after her.

  She’d inherited her father’s magic with horses; she could ride like no one else he knew. But he could ride, too. Her horse flew over the grass; he leaned low and urged his horse faster.

  He always beat her, but this morning they reached the tree at exactly the same time.

  Jess had let out a very unladylike whoop, and when she’d ridden back to him, she and her horse had been almost dancing.

  He’d expected to feel annoyed, but when he saw her so happy and excited, the sun, filtering through the oak leaves, lighting her face, he’d had an almost overwhelming urge to kiss her.

  And then she’d laughed, and the spell had been broken.

  Nothing had been the same since. He’d watched her flirt with Percy and the other men, yet he could never bring himself to try to attract her interest. She was so different from him—a bonfire to his flickering candle.

  And he hadn’t had time for a flirtation or a courtship. He was going to be the duke one day. He’d been away at school or busy with his father, learning what he needed to know to manage the duchy.

  And, yes, perhaps he’d been . . . not afraid, but overwhelmed by the emotions Jess made him feel, and had taken refuge in his studies and his architectural drawings. Those were orderly, factual, predictable. They didn’t involve messy things like love and desire and jealousy.

  If he were completely honest, coming upon Jess with Percy had given him the golden opportunity to get the woman he wanted. Except he hadn’t managed even that. He’d married Jess, but then he’d sent her away.

  Stupid, and yet what else could he have done? She might have been carrying Percy’s child. He’d thought, once he was certain she wasn’t increasing, that he could put the ugly scene behind him, but he’d underestimated its power over him.

  And he hadn’t realized how much she desired sexual congress. He’d heard all the rumors. Percy hadn’t been the only one whispering about the disgraced Lady Ashton. He’d had firsthand experience of her wildness last night, hadn’t he?

  He shifted on the wagon’s hard, wooden bench to take some of the pressure off his growing desire and encouraged the horse to pick up its pace. The sooner they got to the next town the better.

  He glanced at Jess. She was looking away from him at the passing scenery, which was mostly just muddy fields and hedges.

  He’d forgotten the full effect her presence had on him. He felt a bit giddy, a little irresponsible, always on the verge of doing something he’d regret when he was with her. Like what he’d done last night in that dreadful bed. Though he didn’t quite regret that....

  Damn it all, she made him painfully, desperately, mad with desire. His blasted cock was going to explode. He shifted his weight again, but it didn’t help. There was no comfortable position to be found on this unforgiving bench.

  Why the hell wasn’t he like other men? Most male members of the ton didn’t let marriage vows prevent them from enjoying a mistress or two. And now that he’d signed that damned paper, he had one more vow keeping him celibate. He couldn’t honorably find a willing barmaid to ease his pain and give him some sorely—ha! very sorely—needed experience.

  If he was ever free to take Jess to bed and try for an heir, she would laugh at his fumbling.

  Though she hadn’t been laughing last night, had she?

  The surge of pride that came with that thought only made his cock grow stiffer.

  He shifted position once more. They had better reach the damn inn soon.

  Why did Huntington have to come along? Not that her conversation with Kit had been going well, but Huntington had just made things worse.

  Jess glanced at Kit. He was fidgeting on his seat as if he couldn’t wait to reach the inn and put more space between them.

  Had he believed her when she’d said she’d never had anything to do with Huntington? She knew people said that she had. The local go
ssips claimed she’d been in almost every man’s bed in the county, though how anyone could believe that was beyond her. But believe it they did.

  Dennis and Roger went to the tavern on occasion and heard the local men talking. They wouldn’t tell her precisely what the fools said, but they’d admitted some of it, especially after the third or fourth or fifth round of ale, was highly uncomplimentary. Charlie, the footman who’d been at the door—or who should have been at the door—when Kit arrived, had let slip, before Dennis shushed him, that it was the common belief the manor staff was her male harem, a fact he found extremely funny. Of course if the villagers knew the staff’s true interests, she and the men at the manor would have an entirely different set of problems. There were definitely benefits to her social ostracism.

  But none of the local men had better be boasting he’d been in her bed. If that was going on, she’d like a list of the liars so she could give them a piece of her mind, and have Kit—her dog, Kit—take a large piece out of their arses.

  She glanced at her husband Kit again. He was scowling at Chester’s tail. She’d swear he’d actually been on the verge of hitting Huntington. Huntington had seemed to think so, too, and had been frightened by the prospect.

  Perhaps Huntington wasn’t such a skilled pugilist after all. And Kit was quite imposing—tall and broad shouldered. She could definitely attest to that fact.

  Mmm, yes, indeed. For the first time her excitement at the thought of painting the male figure wasn’t solely artistic.

  Would Kit really pose for her when they got to London?

  She shivered with what must be anticipation.

  “Are you cold?” Kit asked.

  “Ah . . .” No, she was actually rather hot, but she couldn’t very well say that.

  “Would you like my coat?”

  His coat, warm with the heat of his body.

  “No, of course not. I’m fine—and see, there’s the church steeple up ahead. We’re almost there.”

  He frowned down at her, concern in his eyes. “You’re certain you’re not cold?”

  “Yes.”

  She forced herself to look away and take a deep breath as Kit navigated a curve and the town came into view. She could not let herself fall back into love with Kit so easily.

  All right, she’d never fallen out of love with him, but she mustn’t let herself act on the feeling yet. Kit might be solicitous at the moment, but that was only because he needed an heir. Did she really want to be nothing more than his brood mare?

  They clattered over the narrow, cobbled street, past shops and the church.

  “The inn must be on the other side of town,” Kit said.

  The image of his body—broad chest, sculpted muscles, flat belly—flashed into her memory. And that very large tent in his drawers.

  Yes, perhaps she did.

  No! Where was her pride? He’d dropped her at the manor eight years ago like a rotten fish, and he’d not seen nor written to her—likely he’d not even thought of her—in all those years. Oh, no. He’d been too damn busy raking his way through the female members of the ton.

  She might be spurned by the local gentry, but somehow they had managed to see that she heard that gossip.

  And why was their gossip about Kit any more believable than their gossip about her?

  She froze. Where the hell had that thought come from? Kit was a marquis. Everyone knew that was the way the male members of the ton lived. Look at Huntington. Look at Percy.

  Look at Kit’s father, the Duke of Greycliffe.

  Ah.

  She glanced at Kit, his face intent as he guided old Chester. He was nothing like Percy or Huntington.

  Perhaps the gossips had exaggerated. Perhaps there was hope she could persuade Kit, even if he had had many lovers, to limit himself to her bed. But it was too soon to know. She could not give in to her attraction now. Yes, she had his name, but she wanted his heart.

  And even if she threw herself naked into his arms, he’d only push her away. He still thought Roger had been much closer a friend than he had been.

  “Ah, here we are.” Kit sounded exceedingly relieved as they clattered into the Singing Maid inn yard. A young boy ran over to take Chester’s bridle. “Let’s go in and see about rooms.”

  With luck they’d be able to get separate bedchambers, and she wouldn’t have to test her resolve. Her head was determined to wait, but her body, the treacherous thing, desperately wanted more of what Kit had done last night.

  She started to get down.

  “Wait for me to help you.” Kit swung out of his seat and hurried over to her side. Damnation. She could have scrambled off the wagon’s bench by herself. She’d certainly done it countless times these last eight years.

  But Kit would not have liked her rejecting his assistance, and she’d admit it would have given a very odd appearance. The inn’s servants who had occasion to be in the yard were staring. They didn’t mistake Kit for a farmer.

  She let his strong fingers grasp hers and ease her down from the wagon. Her silly heart fluttered, and—

  Kit, her dog, whimpered.

  Excellent timing. “You go on. I need to walk my dog.”

  Kit, her husband, raised his brows. “Then I shall accompany you.”

  “Why?” She’d like some time away from him. His large presence was unsettling. It was difficult to think clearly. “I walk him by myself all the time.”

  “And that is another thing I shall add to my list of issues to discuss with Walker when he and I next meet.”

  “I do not understand why you would raise the subject with Mr. Walker. He is not my keeper. And, in any event, in case it has escaped your notice, Kit is large and protective.” Apparently like his namesake. “No one bothers me when I have him with me.”

  She heard the stable boy gasp as her dog jumped down to stand next to her. “See?”

  “Yes, indeed. I see you are being difficult and overly independent to the point of ignoring your good sense.”

  “I am not.” Kit had not been so overbearing when they’d been children. “I assure you I’ve walked my dog many, many times by myself.” She should have seen this coming. She’d wanted to take her dog out alone before they’d left the White Stag, but her husband had insisted on accompanying her then, too.

  She’d never been a dependent female, and eight years virtually running Blackweith Manor by herself had only strengthened her independent inclinations. If Kit thought she’d be some pliable, submissive wife, he was going to be very much disappointed.

  Kit leaned against the wagon, looming over her in a very annoying way. “That may be true, but you are not walking him alone here. You do not know the area nor does your dog. He may be very intelligent and protective, but he is only an animal. He could take off, chasing a rabbit or a squirrel, and leave you at the mercy of any passerby.” He straightened. “Where is his lead?”

  “In the back of the wagon.” Kit had insisted she use the lead at the White Stag, so it was, unfortunately, in plain sight. Otherwise she might have insisted her pet could not wait while he looked for it.

  “Ah yes, I see it.”

  He proceeded to attach it to Kit’s collar—and the damn dog allowed him to do so.

  “There we go.” He turned to the stable boy. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Jake, sir.” The boy couldn’t be more than ten. He kept staring at her dog, his eyes huge. “Is that a bear, sir?”

  Kit laughed. “No. He’s just a very large dog. Would you like to pet him?”

  And now Kit was introducing Kit—her dog, Kit—as if he were his. She watched Jake cautiously put a hand on Kit’s head.

  “Can you see that someone takes care of our horse, Jake?”

  “Y-yes, milord. Of course, milord.”

  “And tell the innkeeper that the Marquis of Ashton would like two rooms for the night.”

  Jake’s eyes grew even wider. “Straightaway, milord.”

  “Splendid.” Kit gave the boy a coin an
d extended his arm to Jess. “Shall we go?”

  Did she have a choice? “Very well.” She put her hand on his sleeve just as a woman and two men rode into the inn yard.

  “What is this wagon doing here?” the thinner of the men asked. His face was pinched with distaste.

  “Blast it all,” Kit muttered. She felt his arm tense under her fingers.

  “It is rather in the way, ain’t it, Hal?” The other man was much broader, tending toward fat, with a reddish, bulbous nose.

  “Yes, indeed,” Hal said. “Take it away, boy. Or better yet, find the farmer it belongs to and have him remove it.”

  Jake’s mouth dropped open, and he looked at Kit.

  The woman sniffed. She was strikingly beautiful with heavy-lidded eyes, very full lips, and clothes that must have come directly from London. “I hope we won’t find manure tracked inside. I thought you said the Singing Maid was a better sort of inn.”

  “I assure you it is, my sweet,” Hal said. “I have never had a problem before. I will definitely have a word with Belmont, the innkeeper. He—”

  The woman’s eyes had been wandering while the man talked. Now they touched on Kit and widened briefly. Her lips slid into a very unpleasant smile. “Stop chattering, Hal. We must greet Lord Ashton and his . . . friend.”

  Jess did not like the way the woman paused before saying “friend.” Kit’s other hand came up to cover hers in a gesture that could only be intended as reassuring. She glanced up at him. His jaw was clenched.

  “Ashton?” the other man said, looking Kit over as if he were a rare animal in a menagerie. “Good God, are you certain? I thought he never left Greycliffe Castle.”

  “Of course I’m certain. I was just at his mother’s infernal house party, remember?” The woman nudged her horse closer. “So lovely to see you again, Lord Ashton.”

  “Lady Heldon,” Ash said, bowing very, very slightly.

  “You know Lord Hallington,”—she gestured toward the thin man—“and Lord Pelthurst, don’t you?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the, ah, pleasure.” Kit looked as if he’d be very happy to forgo that experience now as well.